Growth by Degrees
by audi katia
Summary: A look at some of the older members of the team helping out some of the younger members in perhaps unexpected ways.
1. DickCassie - stealth

_This short series focuses on the mentor/mentee relationship between the original team and the new team. There will be five chapters, each one focusing on a different pairing and a different skill to learn. Everything has already been written, so I will hopefully be updating daily. Also, there are no spoilers for after **True Colors**._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize._

* * *

**Growth by Degrees**

_Dick, Cassie; stealth_  
_takes place after the events of **Beneath**_

It doesn't surprise Dick that it takes Cassie almost ten minutes to realize he's standing in the doorway. But when she does notice, she's so surprised that she spins too quickly, tripping over her own feet with blonde hair splayed out haphazardly against the training mats.

"Oh, hey boss," she says brightly, quick to pull herself up to a standing position.

"Hey Miss Cassie," he smiles, still leaning against the doorframe. "Since Wonder Woman's off world, I thought maybe I'd train you."

Cassie looks like she might actually bubble over from excitement as he pushes away from the doorframe to step closer to where she's standing.

"Great!" Cassie exclaims, excitedly adjusting the metal cuffs on her wrists. "I've been training with a lot of people since she's left."

"So I've heard," he nods. She looks a bit wary at his comment, like she knows what people have said.

Most of the senior members of the team have taken the time to work with her, but each have come back after a few sessions. M'gann put it the most tactfully, saying that Cassie has more energy than she had expected. It's no secret that Cassie's still new to the superhero gig. M'gann, Barbara, and Karen came back from their latest mission at Bialya with the same general notes: very talented and dedicated, but brash, raw, and, to quote Karen, "Wonder Girl, not Stealther Girl."

"You're making progress," Dick assures her, brushing aside her insecurities.

"Really?" she asks, hope coloring her thin voice.

Dick nods, mouth quirked in a smile. When they first met her, her hits had been sloppy and her determination aimless. But since joining the team, she's been training diligently.

Reassured and confident once more, Cassie continues on blithely.

"So what do you want to work on, boss?" She repositions herself to a fighting stance, fists held out and arm muscles taut with purpose. "Hand to hand combat?"

Dick shakes his head. "That's more Black Canary's area. I actually thought we'd work on stealth."

"Great!"

Cassie immediately flies herself over to the wall, nearly pressing herself flat against the concrete and looking around as though keeping lookout. She moves silently against the wall, her flight allowing her to hover a few inches above the ground. She glances over at Dick to make sure he's watching.

"I don't make any sound when I'm moving!" she tells him proudly. She gesticulates to her sneakers, feet jiggling madly. "See, no footsteps!

In her excitement, she swings her arms around and one hand smacks hard against the wall. She snatches it back, but not before leaving a small dent in the wall. Lowering herself back to the ground, she watches a few chips of fallen concrete bounce against the floor.

Immediately, she looks back at Dick, embarrassment clear on her pale features.

Undaunted, Dick smiles and walks towards her. "Okay, first thing first. What went wrong here?"

"I made noise," she sighs, rubbing her injured hand absentmindedly. Her tone sounds textbook ready, a repeat of what she's told her other trainers.

"And you left a mark," he informs her. He rubs a gloved thumb over the crack she had left behind. A few more grains of concrete fall from his touch. "This might not be very noticeable, but you could knock over something, make a mess. Something that would tip off someone looking for intruders."

"Oh!" she exclaims with an enthusiastic nod. "That makes sense."

Dick stares at her for a moment, eyes calculating through his domino mask to judge if she meant it or if she was just eager to say that she understood. Finally, he takes her at her word and walks back through the doorway to retrieve a box he'd brought over from the kitchen.

He heads to the small table where her water bottle sits and, removing it, covers the table with glasses, candlestick holders, bowls, and various utensils he managed to sneak away from M'gann. In the center of the table, he puts a quarter at the bottom of a small candy dish.

He meets her confused expression with simple instructions.

"Get the quarter."

She blinks once, twice, before her expression clouds with determination. Her eyebrows narrow and she juts her awkward jaw into a look of concentration. Without a single sound, she raises herself into the air until she is high above the table. Feet angled towards the ceiling, she descends as though from a crane until her hand can reach the dish and her fingers can snatch up the quarter.

Beaming, she flies back to Dick, quarter outstretched like a prize.

"Great," he exalts. Before the grin can leave her face, he places the quarter back in the dish with ease. "Now do it without flying."

The grin melts away as she looks back at the table, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Dick can practically see her mind whir as she eyes the many glasses and other obstacles blocking her arm's path.

But she moves forward, hand weaving through the dishes and she nearly reaches the candy dish before a misplaced elbow knocks over a tall drinking glass. It rolls loudly over a fork and spoon and lands on the training mat with a muted hit.

Cassie looks back at him as though expecting a reprimand, but he only smiles at her. He moves to her side to place the fallen glass back on the table before gripping her hand in is.

"Think _compact_," he informs her. He pulls her arm away from her body, his other hand settled on her shoulder to keep her body from moving. Once her arm is fully extended, he pulls his hand from hers in a way that leaves her fingers outstretched towards his. "Every part of your body is an extension of you, so you have complete control over everything."

She nods at his words, a dawning look of comprehension coloring her face in a more sincere way than when she had listened to him a few minutes prior. She moves slowly at first, curling her fingers in towards her palm before bringing her fist back to her chest with her elbow close at her side. Turning back towards the table, she walks around it to find an easier path.

Once she's nearly opposite Dick on the other side of the table, he can see her expression light up as she sees a new path. Her arm moves very slowly, too slowly to be effective in a mission, but training takes time. Deftly, she picks up the quarter, careful not to let the ridged sides brush against the glass. As she pulls away, her cocked wrist hits a knife resting inside a champagne glass and the sound of metal on glass resounds in the otherwise silent training room.

Despondently, Cassie tosses the quarter back into the candy dish with a plinking noise.

"I'm not very good at this," she admits, arms crossed and eyes looking away from Dick.

"That's why you're training," he reminds her. "Now c'mon. Let's try again."

She gives a tiny sigh, blowing her bangs away from her eyes, but she does not fight him. Instead she looks back at the table, an opponent she isn't willing to give in to.

"You know what my favorite thing about you is?" he says suddenly, jerking her attention away from the myriad of glasses. She looks up at him curiously, hands still held up by her sides. He smiles warmly before continuing, "Your enthusiasm. People can be so serious sometimes, so focused on training or on the job."

"Isn't that a good thing?" she questions, arms lowering as she looks at him with her head cocked to the side.

"Of course," he nods, "but sometimes I think people forget how cool it is to be a superhero. But you? You never forget that."

"I think it's the best thing in the world."

The sincerity in her voice does not surprise him, but the absolute strength in her resolve makes him grin even wider. He nods encouragingly at the table and watches with no small amount of pride as she maneuvers herself around the table with renewed enthusiasm.

This time as her hand guides through the glasses, nothing is touched by an elbow or a wrist. She manages to extract her hand with careful precision, quarter secure in her grip.

With her new success, Cassie shrieks with happiness before her eyes widen and she slaps a hand over her mouth.

Two steps forward, one step back, Dick thinks with a chuckle as he rearranges the glasses into a new challenge.

* * *

_Please review!_


	2. WallyBart - strength

_This short series focuses on the mentor/mentee relationship between the original team and the new team. There will be five chapters, each one focusing on a different pairing and a different skill to learn. Everything has already been written, so I will hopefully be updating daily. Also, there are no spoilers for after **True Colors**._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize._

* * *

**Growth by Degrees**

_Wally, Bart; strength_  
_takes place after the events of **True Colors**_

Wally's nearly convinced himself that he should just go home and forget the whole thing when suddenly a blur of Kevlar smears in front of him.

"Sorry I'm late, Grandpa!"

Wally can hear the words before the blur finally settles down to reveal Bart, arms outstretched and mouth wide with a toothy grin.

"Definitely related to Barry," Wally smirks, more amused than annoyed. "He never shows up anywhere on time."

The smile falls quickly from the younger boy's face and he looks around comically at his cousin.

"Why are you here?" he asks without looking at Wally, his eyes snapping around the room as though searching for Barry. "I'm supposed to train with the Flash."

"Barry's busy with Iris," Wally shrugs. He thinks back on the harried phone call with his uncle nearly an hour before and rephrases himself. "Well, at least, he called yelling about cribs and training with you and then hung up. And so now here I am."

Bart snaps his attention away from looking behind Wally to catching his gaze directly. His arms cross over his thin chest and when he speaks, there's a sly lilt in his voice.

"You could have called Jay."

"Jay's retired," Wally reminds him, crossing his own arms to mirror the stance opposite him.

"So are you," Bart is quick to add. His eyes light up gleefully and he's practically vibrating in place as he grins devilishly. "Admit it. You want to train me."

Arms still crossed, Wally shrugs with nonchalance.

"I'll go home," he promises, lowering her arms and making to move towards the door. "I swear I will."

Bart sighs hugely, but does allow for the grin to relax into something less superior. "Fine," he relents, drawing the word out long-sufferingly. He then nods to the sweatpants and t-shirt Wally's wearing. "So where are the yellow duds?"

"We're not running today," Wally answers, smirk back and more firmly in place.

Bart's face barely has time to twist confusedly before Wally's leading him through the training room to the weight training section.

They move wordlessly and Wally waits until Bart's removed his goggles and settles his cowl loose around his neck before handing him two five-pound weights. Bart gives him a face, all puppy eyes and pouty lips, but Wally's immune to it after years of dealing with Dick. Bart sighs again, but resigns himself to taking the weights.

"Hold them at your sides," Wally instructs, taking heavier weights for himself.

Then, he curls his left arm up towards his shoulder, rotating his arm so that the inside of his wrist starts at his side but ends nearly touching the front of his shoulder. Then he gently releases the tension in his arm, controlling the movement of his hand from his shoulder back to his side. He does the same with his right arm, rotating his arms with each completed movement.

Wally watches Bart's eyes watch the motion of his arms carefully before he starts to lift his own smaller weights. Thin muscles appear under the creamy white of his costume, giving sinewy definition to his lithe form.

"Really feelin' the mode here, cuz," Bart tells him with annoyance, though his arms never pause in their movements.

"You gotta feel something," Wally says, using the combination of gravity and the weights to stretch his arms. "That means it's working."

"I'm already fast," Bart exasperates, "what more do you want?" He places the weights back on the ground, kneading his biceps with skinny fingers and looking up with annoyance.

Wally takes a deep breath, reminding himself that Bart is only thirteen, that he's in a world he didn't grow up in, and that, deep down, Wally really is fond of him. Once he's reminded himself of all these irrefutable facts, he looks back at his aggravated cousin.

"I want you to be strong," he stresses, letting the weights hang by his sides. "Fast isn't enough, Bart."

"It was before."

Wally blinks at the sudden shortness of his cousin's voice. With a sigh of his own, he lowers the weights to the floor and moves to sit tiredly on a nearby bench. He scrubs a hand over his face, his palm smelling strongly of sweat and metal, before looking concernedly over at Bart.

"Okay," he starts slowly, "in your future, did you have to look out for anyone? Or was it all scavenger's rights?"

Bart's silent, mulling the thought over before shrugging offhandedly.

"Every speedster for himself?" Wally guesses. He waits until Bart nods, confirming his suspicions before continuing. "Well, now you are part of a team. And sometimes the team needs more than speed. Like yesterday, in Smallville," he reminds gently.

Letting his defensive stance drop, Bart moves over to sit next to Wally on the bench. Wally shifts in his seat to look more directly at his cousin.

"Picture this," he suggests, mind whirring with a new idea, "you're in a building that's about to blow. Your partner is down and out for the count. How do you both get out alive?" His eyes slide away from his cousin to stare unfocused at the floor. "Someone's shooting bullets that you can outrun, but your partner can't. How can you help?"

Bart nudges his shoulder to Wally's side, bringing his attention back. He's rolling his eyes, but Wally can also see a smile threatening to appear over his face.

"I get it, I get it," Bart assures him. "Strength is crash."

"Exactly," Wally grins, nudging his cousin back.

Wally pushes against his knees to raise himself off the bench and heads back to his weights, casting a look back at Bart to make sure he's following. He smiles to himself when he sees that Bart has already rushed over to his own weights in a streak of red.

"You just like this because you're stronger than me," Bart teases. "If this was about speed, I'd be running circles around you. Literally."

"Whatever, short man," Wally says with a scoff, curling the weights inwards.

"I'm still growing!" Bart protests, raising himself up on tiptoes to create an illusion of height.

"You know the best part of strength training?" Wally adds, still chuckling at Bart's attempts. Bart settles back on his heels to look questioningly at him and Wally leans in conspiratorially to stage whisper, "Lots of chicken dinners."

Bart looks thoughtful for a moment, arms still dutifully lifting the weights.

"I like chicken," he says to no one's great surprise.

"Then you gotta earn it."

The two speedsters share a smile and Wally thinks, not for the first time, that he's glad to help Barry train Bart. Not that he'll ever mention it, of course.

* * *

_Please review!_


	3. M'gannGar - shapeshifting

_This short series focuses on the mentor/mentee relationship between the original team and the new team. There will be five chapters, each one focusing on a different pairing and a different skill to learn. Everything has already been written, so I will hopefully be updating daily. Also, there are no spoilers for after **True Colors**._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize._

_Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!_

* * *

**Growth by Degrees**

_M'gann, Gar; shapeshifting_  
_takes place during the five year gap**  
**_

"This is too hard!" Gar nearly yells, tears springing into his eyes. "I can't shift like you can."

His small body is trembling with frustration and M'gann can see that he's only a few moments away from a full-on breakdown. With a patient smile, she settles down on the star spangled rug of her bedroom and motions for Gar to join her. He sits reluctantly and only lets his forehead drop to her shoulder after she brushes back a few strands of forest green hair from his freckled cheeks, still rounded with childhood.

"Well, I was born a shapeshifter and have had fifty years of practice. You were born a little boy and have been practicing for two years," she tells him, whispering the reminder into his hair. She wraps an arm tight around his shoulder and squeezes him lightly until he looks up at her with glassy eyes. "You're already so good, Gar. You just need to practice a little more."

Gar sniffles hugely, but he gives her a watery smile which she returns in full.

"Come on," she encourages, leaning away from him to give him some space. "Let's try the monkey again."

Slightly calmer, he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes. His form starts relaxed and still, but she can see the barely there muscles squeeze around his eyes. His temples tighten and she can see his jaw throbbing and the lines of his skinny neck look strained. His fists ball up and his entire body seems to shake with the effort.

M'gann brushes her hands against his upper arms, coaxing him into a more relaxed state. Bright green eyes pop open to look down at himself, but all he can see is his ten-year-old boy self without a trace of a monkey.

"You're thinking too hard," M'gann says before he can get a discouraged cry in edgewise.

"That's the only way I can do it," he tells her, frustration clear under his freckles.

"That's just practice," she tells him with an airy wave of her hand before promising, "It gets easier until you don't think about it at all."

Gar looks less than convinced, eyebrows still raised warily at her. M'gann tucks her legs in Indian-style, noting happily that Gar copies her almost instantaneously.

"When I first tried transforming," she explains, content to share with him, "I used to turn back into my original form whenever I fell asleep. Now I look like this all the time."

She gestures down to her form, jeans and a sweater on a humanoid form. She's shortened her hair and lightened her skin to be the exact same shade as Gar's, but she's very much the same M'gann that he's ever known.

"Is this really different from how you used to look?" Gar asks with too much innocence to be sincere. M'gann gives him a pointed look, a smile playing across her lips.

Realizing she's seen through his attempt to get her to change into her original form, he looks guiltily at her. "Please?" he asks sheepishly.

M'gann makes a big show of pretending to think it over, but she's already made up her mind to show him her White Martian form. He's been begging to see it for weeks and he really has been training very hard lately.

Finally she stands and he perks up with excitement. His eyes never leave her as she morphs her humanoid form into something much more reptilian, more alien in form than he's ever seen before. She's confident he won't flinch away, but she grimaces to look down at him.

"You look so cool!" he exclaims, face bright and shining. And that expression, more than anything else, makes her smile, using muscles typically ignored in her original form.

But she shifts back, adjusting the planes on her face and the contours of her body as though smoothing out wrinkles in a shirt until she's back to her most comfortable form.

Gar is still looking at her with wonder and amazement, but she can see curiosity creeping in with its usual fast-paced speed.

"If you could choose to look like anyone, why did you want to look like my mom?"

This is the only time he talks about his mom, when the two of them are training together. And even then, it's rare enough that M'gann thinks carefully before responding.

"Because," she says finally, sitting across from Gar with her back resting against the edge of her bed, "I feel more like myself like this than I ever did as a White Martian." He still looks confused, his eyes squinting at her as though if he stares hard enough he'll understand. She tries a different tactic. "I want to look the way I feel. Like when Cassie wants to be like Wonder Woman, she wears star earrings. Or when Robin wants to be anonymous, he wears a mask. It's an accessory. A way to decorate yourself."

Gar nods slowly and she can see him think as sure as she can the tension around his eyes take on a different emotion.

"So," he begins cautiously, "if I want to feel different, I should look different?"

His voice is so small and careful, each word weighted out to its full meaning. She understands better than anyone why he trains so hard. She knows when you're working towards something, you're working away from wherever you might have been before.

She shuts her eyes regretfully, shaking her head and looking away so that when her eyes open again, she's staring down at her own green fingers twisted in her lap.

"You can't really change how you feel, Gar," she tells him gently. Her eyes look up to see his and he sighs with a resignation ten year olds shouldn't know.

"Okay," she distracts, waving her hands in front of him as though brushing aside the conversation. "Let's try this. Shut your eyes."

He complies, eyes shut and body ready to try again. He breathes in and out a few times and M'gann waits until he's nearly relaxed to grin mischievously and tickle his sides and the rounded pudge of his belly while he's unaware.

"Hey!" he cries out, eyes snapping open. He's torn between laughing and glaring at her, so he just twists away, hiding a grin behind his hand.

"Sister's prerogative," she teases. She lets the happy moment wash over the two of them until finally, the ache in their sides feels better than anything else has so far that day. "Okay, again. Shut your eyes," she tells him, gesturing to him to settle down. "How do you feel when you're the monkey?"

Gar twists in his seat, eyes scrunched up in thought rather than frustration.

"Happy," he finally says with a definitive tone. "Funny. Fast." He pauses for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "Weightless? No. Um, what's that word Robin always uses?"

"Agile?" she guesses, prompted by his original adjective.

"Yeah, that," he grins with his eyes still shut.

Something catches her eyes and she watches as his arms lengthen and hair spouts in small tufts over his arms and the sides of his face. Something animalistic carves itself into the small spaces of his face and, by the way he's shifting in his seat again, she suspects that if he turned around, she'd see at least the beginnings of a tail.

"Oh, Gar!" she exclaims, excited with the transformation as his ears round unmistakably. "Look!"

His eyes open, still green and childish, and he looks down at his hands. He stares at the fur along the backs of his hands, holding them out farther away from himself than he's used to.

And it's not a full transformation, but it's farther than he's ever gotten, and that success alone is enough for him to whoop for joy. The echoes of his gleeful shouts echo against the carved walls of her room and it's contagious enough to make her join in.

He's happier like this than she thinks seen him in a long time. It doesn't surprise her at all when they leave the comfort of her room and he wears the simian-form like a new suit. It fits him, she thinks.

* * *

_Please review!_


	4. ConnerJaime - research

_This short series focuses on the mentor/mentee relationship between the original team and the new team. There will be five chapters, each one focusing on a different pairing and a different skill to learn. Everything has already been written, so I will hopefully be updating daily. Also, there are no spoilers for after **True Colors**._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize._

* * *

**Growth by Degrees**

_Conner, Jaime; research_  
_takes place after **Salvage  
**_

Conner submits the last of the mission file into the computer and nods to Jaime, a silent confirmation that they have finished the last duty of their mission.

Jaime smiles gratefully and raises from his seat, his spine stretching so that Conner can just barely hear the pop of his vertebrae. He makes a move as though he means to leave, but Conner just catches him by his shoulder.

"Not so fast, freshman," Conner grunts, "we still have some work to do."

He's trying not to be too rough, but Jaime jerks under his touch all the same. But he remains mostly still as Conner stands from his seat before the computer, moving only when Conner steers him down one of the narrowed hallways of the Cave.

Jaime makes a strange jerk, head flinching back, and hisses under his breath. From the corner of his eye, Conner watches Jaime look up cautiously.

"So, uh," he starts as awkwardly as he had sounded hours ago on Sphere. "What's going on?"

Hand dropping from Jaime, he steps forward to take the lead as they reach the doors of the library. He opens it and walks through, not bothering to hold it open for Jaime. But he can hear his footsteps behind him as they walk down one of the many aisles of bookcases.

"Our mission worked out," Conner starts. He moves down several non-descript aisles until he reaches the one he had been looking for. "We stopped the Golem, or in your words, eliminated the threat. But it could have been better."

His voice trails off as his eyes search over the boxes in perfect lines and careful order. He spots the ones he's looking for and pulls it out, blinking against the sudden flurry of dust on the years-old boxes. Open it and extracting folders at random, he shoves it back into place. The box is askew compared to the others and Jaime hastens to straighten it even as Conner brushes past him back to the center of the library.

"You didn't do the homework," Conner continues as he walks around one of the study tables. He pulls out a chair and glares at Jaime before sitting down and tossing the folders down on the surface. "We could have avoided a few hits of your plasma gun."

Jaime blinks owlishly, mouth tightened into a confused line.

"But we got out."

He's not being insolent or difficult, but just genuinely puzzled. And this, more than anything else, makes the glare leave from Conner's eyes. He remembers this part, where no one told him the process is as important as the results.

He kicks under the table at the chair across from him, pushing it far away enough from the table for Jaime to get the hint that he should sit down. And he does, his eyes unblinking and trained on Conner.

"Yeah, we got out. Because someone else knew enough about the Golem to stop it," he reminds him. Jaime has the sense to look chagrined, but he nods like he gets it and Conner continues. "Look, that bug gives you knowledge, right?"

"Sí," Jaime nods. He jerks again, eyes dashing behind his shoulder momentarily. But he resettles himself, mouth a little aggravated at the corners.

"I was programmed in Cadmus with information about any topic you can think of," Conner explains. Jaime's eyes widen at the information and Conner knows it's the surprise associated with everyone whenever he speaks about Cadmus. It's a rare occasion, but if he can trust Jaime on the field, he can trust him here.

"But all that information? It never really made sense to me. It was just facts I was programmed to know."

"I'm not really following, ese," Jaime says carefully, his face contorted into something Conner vaguely recognizes as an apology.

"That bug translated what the Golem was saying," Conner carries on, gesturing loosely at Jaime who looks over his shoulder for a moment where the scarab lies. "But what it was saying was just words. You had to think about what it was saying to give it meaning."

Jaime nods slowly, eyes still cast over his shoulder. His look is hazy, but when he speaks, it's with a dawning comprehension.

"That makes sense."

"Of course it does," Conner responds gruffly, opening the folders laying out on the table. He pulls the last page from each one, tucking them away before shoving the remaining papers and folders across the table until they're in front of Jaime.

Jaime looks at them for a moment, hands flicking them open and sifting through the papers.

"What are these?" he finally asks, looking down at photographs and typed up reports.

"Case files," Conner answers with a shrug. He can see the corner of one of the images and recognizes it from one of their many covert missions gone astray. A smile creeps onto his face with the memory. "Old cases. Mostly from the team's second year."

"Why?"

Conner shrugs again. "We worked a little better once we were all used to each other."

"No," Jaime shakes his head with an amused smile. "I mean, why the files?"

"Oh." Conner holds up the pages still in his hand, a smirk growing across his face. "I already know the outcome of the missions. But I want you to read the files, just the debriefing. Tell me what you learn from each case. How you would go about fixing the problem or spying on the baddies or tackling the uglies."

Jaime sighs disappointedly, staring down at the folders with mild dejection. But he delves into the paperwork regardless, back slouched over the table as he stares at the first case.

Leaning back in his own seat, Conner tilts his head back and shuts his eyes for a few moments until Jaime's voice cuts across.

"So the heavy hitter of the team is going to show me how to use books and the internet?" His smile is both impressed and incredulous, his mouth curled into a smile as he stares over at Conner.

Conner grins back for a moment, but he shakes his head at the base of Jaime's comment.

"This whole superhero gig... It's not just muscles or information or knowing the limits of your armor. It's about understanding what you're up against."

He's a little proud of himself for that line, but Jaime continues to look at him strangely. Conner opens his mouth to try to find another way to describe it to him, but Jaime cuts him off.

"Why are you helping me?" It's curious to the point of accusatory, but his face and jaw are set, staring at Conner for an answer.

Conner shakes his head, jerking his shoulder in a half shrug as his crosses his arms across his broad chest. "I figure every new kid needs a mentor," he comments with feigned indifference. "The one who should have been yours isn't around anymore, so."

He trails off, eyes darting from the wooden surface of the table to Jaime, who meets his gaze with a grateful smile before turning his attention back to the papers at hand.

The gratitude does not surprise Conner, but the sense of accomplishment he feels as a result does. He brushes the feeling aside, staring at the pages still gripped in his hand. His eyes scan over the familiar names of himself and his friends and their old missions as he thinks to himself, everyone's new at some point.

* * *

_Please review!_


	5. BarbaraTim - first aid

_This short series focuses on the mentor/mentee relationship between the original team and the new team. There will be five chapters, each one focusing on a different pairing and a different skill to learn. Everything has already been written, so I will hopefully be updating daily. Also, there are no spoilers for after **True Colors**._

_I know Barbara isn't technically part of the original team, but I like to think that she joined the team pretty early on in the five year skip. She's older and a little more experienced than some of the newer and younger members of the team and would certainly count as a mentor. In fact, in **Satisfaction**, Jaime even tells Bart that Batgirl is one of Robin's mentors, so there's some justification for this. :)_

_Thank you all so much for reading this story! I really enjoyed writing it and hopefully you all enjoyed reading it. :) This is the end to this particular story, but I'm working on some new material so hopefully I'll be posting a new story soon. :D Thanks again to all of you lovely, lovely people!_

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognize._

* * *

**Growth by Degrees**

_Barbara, Tim; first aid_  
_takes place during the five year skip**  
**_

A person would have to be blind, Barbara thinks, to miss the smile that appears on Tim's face when Dick congratulates him. The corners of his mouth perk with unexpected pride as Tim finishes debriefing their latest ret-con.

"Good job, Robin," Dick says sincerely, looking like he's one encouragement away from ruffling the army-regulated haircut of the younger boy. "Go home, get some sleep."

"Thanks, Nightwing," Tim nods, still smiling and tugging his cape around his shoulders as though he's cold. He moves like he's going to head towards the zeta tubes, but a flash of black and yellow whips around a different corner.

Boy Wonder, he might be. But the movement does not go unnoticed by Dick and Barbara who exchange curious glances. Dick makes a move as though about to stand, but Barbara waves him off and moves quietly after Tim.

She makes nearly silent footsteps in the hallway, the soles of her boots somehow soft against the stone floors, until she can see a light in medical bay. Peering in carefully, she sees Tim standing by a counter, an array of bandages on the surface beside him. His cape is draped neatly over the back of a nearby chair and the top of his uniform has been removed, bunched down around his waist to reveal a bruised torso and a several inches long cut along the curve of his upper arm.

"Nasty gash," Barbara comments casually, her words alerting Tim to her presence.

He looks up quickly at her, nearly dropping the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball in his surprise. But he catches himself, training his expression back into indifference.

"It's not so bad," he informs her. She doesn't respond except to raise her eyebrows at him and he sighs before stressing, "Really."

At second glance, she can see that he's right. The cut is shallow, longer than it is deep and it looks as though it stopped bleeding a while ago. Still, she removes her mask, pocketing it in her utility belt, and moves to stand beside him.

"So what," she asks, holding her hand out expectantly for the cotton ball, "now you're a tough guy?"

Tim looks as though he might refuse to give her the cotton ball for a second, but she remains unmoving and he resigns himself to handing it to her and exposing his cut a little more openly towards her.

"The toughest." He tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace as she presses the cotton ball to the wound.

"Nice try, kid," she smirks, easily catching the grimace he tries to disguise with a cough.

Barbara peels off her gloves to wash her hands in the counter's sink. They stand in silence, except for the sound of the running faucet, as the water cleanses the soap suds from her thin hands. She nods to him and he turns the water off for her as she shakes her hands relatively dry in the basin before grabbing ointment from the small collection of bandages on the countertop.

"So why are you patching up here?" she asks, smearing antibiotic cream over his cut. "Alfred's got a certain finesse to dressing wounds that I've never been able to master."

"Well, I'll bet you'd be pro if you had to patch up Batman for that many years."

"Two jokes in less than five minutes?" Barbara notes, amusement in her voice as she rips open the packaging and covers his small wound with a tefla pad. "You must be hurt."

"I'm not hurt!" he snaps, mouth tight with the defense.

Taken aback by his reaction, she leans back to stare at him more carefully. One hand still pressed to the tefla on his arm, she removes his mask with her free hand. He doesn't make any motion to stop her, but his gaze refuses to meet hers once his blue eyes are revealed.

"So that's it," she says quietly.

"What do you mean?"

His eyes finally find hers and she finds herself, as she always does, shocked by how young his expression can be sometimes.

"You don't want anyone to know you're hurt."

He doesn't say anything in response and she falls silent, too, making noise only to wrap gauze around his arm a few times, securing the tefla in place. She rips a piece of cloth tape and presses it gently to the gauze, careful not to let it come undone. Reassured that the gauze won't come undone, she rests a gentle hand on his arm.

"You know," she starts, her voice equal parts reassuring and cautious, "it's okay to get hurt."

He stares at her hand determinedly, as though the weight of her small gesture caused internal debate. But he sighs and moves away from her to sit down on the cape-covered chair.

"No, it's not," he answers, tucking his uninjured arm back into the sleeve of his uniform.

"Nightwing used to get hurt. He still does," she tells him, kneeling next to him in the chair. "I get hurt. Gar, Cassie, M'gann. Everyone gets hurt." She pauses for a moment before smiling, "Well, maybe not Superboy. That whole indestructible thing."

Tim's eyes still avoid her, but she nudges him playfully into a smile. He flickers his glance to hers, eyes catching for a second before he looks away in favor of carefully adjusting the sleeve over his injured arm.

"Everyone gets hurt," Barbara continues, hands hovering at his sides, ready to help him if he needs her. She hesitates for a moment, realizing he's fine on his own. "No one is going to be upset with you if you're hurt. Bruce wouldn't do that."

It's quiet for a long moment, Tim fiddling with the latches of his uniform. Finally he breaks off with a heavy sigh, back slumping and neck craning to look at Barbara.

"It's not that," he reveals, bright eyes more tired than they appeared just moments before.

"Then what?"

She stares at him and something in his expression, something in the way he silently pleads with her brings to mind another set of brilliant blue eyes.

"Oh," she falters, realization catching in her throat. "Jason."

He lets his head hang and she fights the urge to brush his hair or to even pull him into a hug. She reaches out and pulls away, awkward with comforting. Instead, she tucks her elbows to her side and tries to coax him into looking at her again.

"Tim, you are not Jason," she promises. "You don't have to walk on eggshells thinking that everyone expects you to be like Jason."

"Jason died," Tim stresses, hands balling into clenched fists in his lap. "I don't want anyone to think-"

"That you're human?" she interrupts hastily. "That you're vulnerable? You don't have to be the strongest, most infallible person on the team."

"I just don't want people to look at me and see a dead hero."

And the truth of it is, she gets it. She understands what he's saying and what he's doing here in the stilted whiteness of the medical bay and why he won't tell anyone when he falls. But she's didn't become a hero just to sit idly by with only warm words of comfort to offer.

"Okay, get up," she starts briskly. Barbara stands up, hands on her hips and a no-nonsense look on her face. Tim looks up from his clenched hands, eyes surprised. She continues to stare at him until he obliges her, standing slowly from the chair.

"You are _not_ going to mope and you are _not_ going to worry," she continues, walking to the counter to grab his discarded mask. "No more hiding when something goes wrong. If you spend all your time trying to avoid making Jason's mistakes, then how are you going to learn from your own?"

She hands the mask to him, letting him decide for himself if he wants to put it back on. He holds it in his hands, a calculated look etched deep on his face. Barbara pulls her own mask from her belt and secures it to her face, snug and conforming to her every curve.

"You're part of the family now, we're going to help you." She lets herself clasp his uninjured shoulder tightly, squeezing once before letting her grip drop. "But only if you let us."

"Easier said than done," he says. But he smiles up at her, unsure but steady, and she thinks he's catching on. She wraps an arm around his shoulders as he picks up his cape and they leave the medical bay, worries and confessions left behind.

One step at a time, she thinks, watching from the corner of her eye as he puts his mask back on.

* * *

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